


The Thirty-Six Questions That Lead to Love

by aeli_kindara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birdwatching, Canon Universe, Case Fic, Fake Relationship, Idiots in Love, Intense Conversations, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24242824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeli_kindara/pseuds/aeli_kindara
Summary: “So I need you to be my gay dads,” says Claire.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester (Implied), Kaia Nieves/Claire Novak (mentioned)
Comments: 182
Kudos: 1678
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	The Thirty-Six Questions That Lead to Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remmyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/gifts).



> I started this, like, five months ago as a birthday gift for the wonderful [remmyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme). It kind of got away from me. Happy late birthday, Remmy!
> 
> This is set in near-future canonverse. It mentions a couple events of S15, but the Big Bad drama is [hand-waves] dealt with, and you absolutely don't have to be up to date on the show to read.

“So I need you to be my gay dads,” says Claire.

Dean blinks.

This is not what he expected when Claire called to say she’d be swinging by the bunker to ask them for a favor. She’s already explained the case she’s working — series of ghost attacks at retreats for gay-married families or something, she’s trying to get into the next one and see if she can crack it — but this? This is —

“Come on,” he says, scowling. If she’s found the _Supernatural_ book series — or God forbid, the online fanfiction — “We’re _brothers.”_

He glances at Sam for backup. But Sam’s making that face at him — that _Dude, what?_ face — which promises no help. Beyond him Cas’s expression is perfectly neutral.

“Okay, one, gross,” says Claire. “And two, I mean you and Cas. Obviously.”

Right.

Cas is Claire’s actual dad. Only — not biologically. Only — _yes_ biologically, but not — soul-ologically or some shit —

Which does nothing to answer the question of why he and _Sam_ can’t go do this for Claire.

Except that the moment Dean thinks that, he hates it. For no reason he cares to name.

Besides, Cas’s powers are kind of on the fritz lately. Not that Dean doesn’t trust Sam to look out for him, he just — he’d like to do it himself. Cas is bad at watching his own back.

“Obviously,” he echoes.

Claire’s smile is knowing. “Good,” she says, too-sweetly, “because I already signed us up. Here’s the details. Next weekend. I’ll see you there.”

\---

The first hiccup comes at the check-in desk.

“Names?” asks a bored-looking clerk, barely glancing up from her screen.

Dean rests an elbow on the desk. “Dean Winchester,” he supplies. “And —”

Shit. What should he call Cas? He doesn’t _have_ a last name as far as Dean’s aware, unless he’s still using Jimmy Novak’s. Only — the whole point of this thing is Claire’s supposed to be adopted, and if Cas has the same last name as she does — but no, that wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, she might have taken her new dad’s last name —

“Castiel,” says Cas. “Winchester.”

Dean chokes. The clerk glances up at them, a skeptical tilt to her eyebrows.

Cas sidles a step closer to Dean. Puts an arm around Dean’s waist. His thumb strokes briefly over Dean’s hip.

Dean forces a smile. The clerk stares another moment, then shakes her head. She shoves a pile of pamphlets and flyers and schedules across the desk at them and finishes checking them in.

\---

They have a fancy room with fluffy white towels and a single king bed. Dean drops his duffel by the door and clears his throat. Cas says, “I can take the armchair.”

Before Dean can answer, there’s the sound of a keycard in their door, and it swings open. Dean has his gun half out of the back of his jeans, but it’s only Claire, grinning wide. “I already distracted the clerk and copied your key. Good thing, too — they’ve got us kids in a whole separate building. We’ll need someplace to meet.”

Dean frowns. “I thought this whole thing was about, like — parent-child shit. Y’know. Together.”

“Read the flyer.” Claire unfolds it from her back pocket. The image is a bit distorted by crumpling, but it shows a girl in a graduation cap, smiling out toward some unseen future; behind her, two older women lean their heads together. The text under it reads: _Redefining Relationships, Rediscovering You: Healthy Boundaries in Adult Adoptive Families._

“Wait,” says Dean. “This thing is for _helicopter_ parents?”

He feels Cas brush up beside him, then reach to take the flyer. “I don’t understand.”

Claire shrugs. “It’s all about — dismantling codependency, or something. You guys over here, us over there. We come together at the end, I guess? I’m not sure — just that the last _dozen_ places they’ve run this thing, someone winds up having weird encounters. Cold spots, flickering lights, things flying around — usually it’s a parent that gets attacked.”

“No deaths, though?”

“No deaths,” Claire confirms. “I’ve already checked a bunch of the grounds, though, and they’re lousy with EMF. Hard to get a bead on anything.”

Dean frowns. He opens his duffel and pulls out his reader; sure enough, the moment he turns the dial, it squeals.

Claire’s staring at the thing in his hands. “What _is_ that?”

Dean glances down. “A — it’s a Walkman, what the hell do you think it is?”

He only gets a blank look in response.

“Goddamn kids,” Dean mutters as he kicks her out. “No respect for — culture, or history — it’s _civilization,_ is what this thing is.”

Claire winks at him. “Sure, grandpops,” she says, and leaves Dean spluttering at the door.

\---

The place they’re holding this retreat is like a — well, a retreat center, Dean guesses is the term.

The building is all rustic wood and big glass windows looking out at beautiful forest. It looks too green to be real. When Cas slides the window open, there’s the sound of running water somewhere unseen; birds are singing.

He consults the program they got at check-in. “Guess dinner’s starting in a few minutes,” he tells Cas. “In the, uh — Silver Maple Dining Room. Wherever that is.”

“There’s a map,” Cas helpfully supplies. “On the back.”

The Silver Maple Dining Room turns out to be separated from the main building by a stone terrace, a half-flight of steps down. There are a few metal tables set out in the dappled sunlight, some of them occupied by other couples. Eyes follow Cas and Dean as they pass. Dean shifts uncomfortably so that the back of his knuckles brush Cas’s.

If they expected to see Claire at dinner, they’re disappointed. The kids must have their own dining room somewhere else. They do have an assignment from her, though: start to get to know the other couples. There’s not much of a connecting thread between the other vics except that they’ve all been parents, not kids — but maybe Dean and Cas can start teasing out a pattern.

It surprises Dean to realize not all the couples here are same-sex. The retreat’s being put on by an organization called Queer Parents of America, but it’s apparently not limited — any interested family can sign up.

Their plan to meet other couples is hampered fairly quickly by the fact that all the tables are set for two, lit candles and everything. Dean feels a little awkward as he pulls his chair up, the floor-length tablecloth bunching around his knees. Across from him, Cas shows no signs of dismay. He takes his menu and considers it, candlelight shadowing the frown lines between his eyes.

Dean looks away hastily. He picks up his own menu and discovers there are only three options: steak, salmon with wild rice, or something involving roasted vegetables.

That choice isn’t going to keep him occupied for long. He sighs and sets down the menu.

Cas is still perusing his. He’s got that little head-tilt going, lips pursed, and Dean’s body physically rejects the idea of contemplating how that makes him feel. He swivels in his seat, and luckily there’s another couple pulling chairs out right behind them; Dean plasters on his most charming grin.

“Hey,” he says, “Dean Winchester,” and reaches out a hand for the man behind him to shake. He’s older, tall and thin, with gray hair and a pleasantly weathered face; he introduces himself as Thomas, and his wife as Laura. She has a gauzy air that contrasts sharply with the lesbian couple at the next table, Gina and Evangeline, who goes by Evan, and Dean’s getting into his role as ice-breaker when Gina asks, suddenly and not unkindly, “And what’s your name?”

It takes Dean a split second to realize she’s talking to Cas. When he turns, Cas has his menu set down and an unreadable expression on his face. “Castiel,” he says for the second time that day, “Winchester.”

Dean’s stomach does a little loop-de-loop.

He’s going to have to fucking get used to this.

He’s just reupping his grin, getting ready to step into the breach of awkward abruptness that is Cas-in-social-settings, when a gently amplified voice sounds across the dining room.

“Hello! Hello, everyone, and welcome. If I could have your attention for just a moment, please.”

The woman speaking is small and dark-haired, barely taller than the podium she’s standing behind. Her smile is dazzlingly white, though, beaming out across the room. “My name is Rachel Armitage, and I’ll be your host for this weekend’s activities. We’re so glad you all could join us. Now, a little housekeeping before we get started; bathrooms are behind me and to the left, and fire exits are —”

Dean tunes her out and leans forward across their table, because Cas still has a weird look on his face, like he’s vaguely put out. “Hey,” he asks in an undertone, “are you all right?”

Cas frowns without quite meeting his eyes. “Of course. I just — you seemed to wish to talk to those other couples more than me. I’m sorry if I got in the way of that.”

Dean swears softly under his breath. “Cas, don’t be an idiot. I’m just trying to get to know them, like Claire asked, right?” And — he doesn’t know why he does it, really, it’s just that there’s a small table between them, and candlelight, and they’re supposed to be acting like a couple, and Cas’s hand is right there — and Dean reaches out to take it.

Cas’s eyes shoot up to his, startled. Dean finds himself caught in them.

Rachel’s still talking. “As we all know, adoption can be stressful for everyone, but right now — for this weekend — we want to focus on strengthening your relationship to _each other._ Your child will always be your child, but they can and will learn and grow without you. Now is a great time to recommit to each other, and start looking ahead to the future you’re going to share.”

Behind Dean, Thomas makes a thoughtful hum of agreement. Cas’s eyes are very blue.

“And with that in mind, we wanted to start off with a little exercise. How many of you would say you’ve let romance fall by the wayside in your relationship? Raising a kid is tough, right? Doesn’t leave a lot of time or energy for — say, compliments. So we’ll start with something easy. We’d like all of you to give your partner a compliment. Right now.”

She steps back from the mic. Immediately, the room is filled with a soft rumble of voices.

Dean is frozen. Cas is still staring at him. His fingertips, faintly sweaty now, are still resting on Cas’s palm.

“Your — eyes,” he blurts. “You have nice eyes.”

Cas blinks. Then he smiles, faintly, and withdraws his hand. Freeing Dean from his ill-considered move. Dean lets his hand rest awkwardly on the table for a beat longer, then drops it into his lap.

“I was just looking at this menu,” Cas says, “and thinking about your cooking. You enjoy feeding your family, and sometimes you’re embarrassed by it, but you shouldn’t be. I like that you like cooking.”

Which leaves Dean tongue-tied and red in the face, barely able to gulp out the word, “steak,” to the waiter when he arrives; helplessly aware of Cas still watching him. Of the smile on Cas’s face when he orders the same thing.

The weekend goes downhill from there.

\---

Claire’s in their room when they get back, perched across the armchair with her ankles crossed, flipping through a pamphlet of activities.

“We can go rock climbing or whitewater rafting tomorrow,” she tells them. “What’ve you got?”

“Uh,” says Dean. He doesn’t remember any activity options.

Cas is holding a pile of documents; he thumbs through them. “We have a guide to the birds on the property. If we want to go birdwatching.”

Claire wrinkles her nose. “Well — have fun with that. Maybe you’ll have time for these.” She gives a meaningful pat to the stack of folders on the dresser. “Everything I’ve got on the past vics — maybe you’ll see a pattern where I haven’t.”

Dean doubts it. After an evening of trying not to stare at Cas across their table, his brain feels like soft mush. But they make an effort anyway, dividing the folders after Claire is gone and working their way through.

“I’ve found nothing,” Cas finally announces around eleven, and Dean gratefully slaps his own folder back on the nightstand. “Nada,” he agrees.

Cas yawns. This has been a thing with him lately; he claims to not need sleep, but the more his powers dwindle, the more Dean catches him dozing in the bunker library, or once, passed out cold in his own bedroom, face down in the pillow. That one scared the shit out of Dean, got him in there half-straddling Cas shaking him before Cas turned over, blinking owlishly and demanding Dean get _off._

“All right,” Dean says. “Bed.”

Cas starts, “I don’t need —”

“Sleep or whatever, yada yada, okay tough guy. Stare at the ceiling all night for all I care. But the bed’s plenty big enough for two.”

So that’s how Dean ends up elbowing Cas in the face when their door creaks open past two in the morning, scrambling to get his pistol from under his pillow and fix it on the intruder in the half-light.

“Ow,” says Cas.

“Huh,” says Claire.

Dean lowers his gun. The light clicks on; Claire gives them a squint of scrutiny, but she’s jittery with news, and she lets it slide. “So I’ve been up all night reviewing the kids’ files,” she says, in a rush, “and I don’t think it’s anything to do with the parents at all. I mean it is obviously, they’re the ones getting attacked, but — I think the pattern’s in the kids.”

She explains her reasoning. It’s complicated. Dean assumes he’ll be able to catch up when it isn’t two in the morning.

“So,” Cas says, squinting against the light, “you’ll investigate that. What should we do?”

Claire shrugs. “I dunno. Hang tight.” She grins suddenly. “Maybe I can lure it in. You’ll be the bait.”

Dean groans and flops back on his pillow. He hates being the bait.

\---

The first activity on their agenda for Saturday morning, after breakfast, is listed only as: _Conversations. 9am - 10am. Silver Maple Dining Room._

“As we talked about yesterday,” Rachel says, beaming her smile out like a lighthouse, “our real focus for this retreat is _rediscovering your relationships._ No matter how close you think you are to your partner — there is always more to learn about each other. Deeper levels of intimacy you can reach. With that in mind, we’ve designed an activity that we’ll be doing in three parts with you this weekend, based on the ‘36 Questions That Lead to Love.’”

Dean snorts under his breath. He’s feeling more chill about all this, in the light of morning; Cas seems to have a sense of humor about it all, and the coffee here is good, even. He drains his mug and flags a passing waiter for a refill.

“Both of you will answer each question,” Rachel’s saying. “At the end of our third and final session comes the most intimate experience of all — you will look into each other’s eyes without speaking for four minutes. Participants have reported that the intensity of feeling they experience from this step is among the most meaningful experiences of their lives.”

_Sure,_ Dean thinks. These people haven’t met Cas. World champion starer.

“The waiters will be coming by one last time, and then — we’ll begin!”

Dean snags one more ham and cheese croissant from a passing tray. He catches Cas watching him, but Cas’s mouth only creases in a smile. Rachel calls out across the room, “All right — is everyone ready for the first question? Quiet, please. The first question is: _Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”_

There’s an immediate outbreak of murmuring conversation. Then someone calls out, “Do they have to be alive?”

It takes Rachel a moment to lean back into the microphone. “Living or dead, entirely up to you.”

Dean frowns. Who would he want as a dinner guest?

If the dead are options, he’s got a whole list of people he’d want to see one last time. He has experience with the dead, though. More than enough of it; raising them, putting them to rest. No. Someone living, then.

He considers famous people. Dr. Sexy? No one’s asked if fictional characters are allowed; Dean’s not gonna raise his hand. He casts his mind through his favorite musicians. Robert Plant, maybe, or Mick Jagger. Bowie’s dead; so is Lou Reed; so is Clarence Clemons. Springsteen’s not, but that feels — a little too close to home.

He doesn’t want any of those people as a dinner guest. The only person he wants as a dinner guest is already sitting right across from him; already told Dean last night: _I like that you like cooking._

He’d want Cas as his dinner guest. Always. Only — Cas with his full sense of taste, like he talks about whenever he eats peanut butter and jelly. If he could give that to Cas, if he could cook him a real meal he’d really get to experience —

“Your mother,” Cas says.

Dean blinks.

Cas is twisting his hands in his lap. “I’d just,” he says. “If I could give her back to you —”

Dean’s throat is dry. Cheeks hot. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I — was gonna say the same thing.”

He’s saved from elaborating further when Rachel steps back to the mic. “All right, if we’re all wrapping up, ready for the second question… _Would you like to be famous? In what way?”_

Dean snorts. He’s already been on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. He’s good, thanks.

But Cas is smiling. “You always wanted to be a rock star.”

\---

That’s pretty much how it goes. Dean fumbles his way through questions like _For what in your life do you feel most grateful?_ and _Name three things you and your partner have in common;_ Cas always seems to have a ready answer, genuine, even sweet.

The thing is — the thing is.

So Dean’s been in love with the guy for like ten years, right. It’s not news. He knows nothing’s ever going to happen; Cas is an angel, it’s not like that; sometimes he even forgets it’s there. It’s just — part of him. How he’s built. Wanting Cas is like breathing; he doesn’t need it to be anything more.

But it’s a hell of a lot harder to remember that, right, when Rachel is pacing the room, asking questions like: _“What would constitute a ‘perfect’ day for you?”_

Cas looks thoughtful; seconds pass. Dean blurts, “I always wanted for us to go to the beach.”

The words trip out without him telling them to. Cas is watching him with a smile in his eyes. “Y’know, somewhere warm,” Dean’s saying. “With — hammocks or whatever. You, me —”

He stops himself short. Rachel’s threading her way through the tables; she’s right there. He was about to say, _you, me, Sam._

“You and me,” he coughs again, reddening, but as he says it he can see it in his mind: “Watching a sunset or something, someone bringing us drinks, and like — we could go swimming, but we don’t want to. Maybe we will tomorrow. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Rachel’s moved on. Dean’s face is crimson. Cas is smiling down at the tablecloth.

“That sounds nice,” he says. “I’d — take that as mine, too, if you’d allow it.”

Something funny squeezes in Dean’s chest. He nods without words.

It wouldn’t be half bad, honestly. Sand between their toes. Cas is bad at relaxing — always feels like he needs to be somewhere, doing something — but maybe he’d learn. Maybe he just needs practice.

_“If you could change anything about the way you were raised,”_ Rachel asks, _“what would it be?”_

Dean’s throat clamps. He looks up.

Cas is looking at him, looking through him, with an intensity Dean knows all too well. It makes him feel X-rayed. _You don’t think you deserve to be saved._

Dean’s childhood is another thing they don’t talk about. Sure, Cas has asked, once in a very great while — he asked when he was first trying to work out how to be a father to Claire. Every now and then, Dean or Sam gets to telling stories. But it’s not —

There’s not much of the gory details that Cas missed, Dean thinks, when he raised him from hell. Took Dean’s soul in his hands and pieced it back together. It’s not the sort of thing they bring up.

Dean lets out a huff of anxious laughter. “I mean —”

“I would change a great deal about how you were raised,” Cas murmurs.

But Dean’s shaking his head. “I wouldn’t.” His voice comes out rough, but sure. “Not — if it means I don’t wind up where I am. Who I am. I’m pretty okay with me.”

That makes Cas go still for a second. His hand twitches, as if he’s about to reach out for Dean. His mouth opens, then closes again.

“What about you?” Dean asks. “What would you change?”

Cas sits back. He looks a little startled at the question, like he’s never thought about being _raised_ before; Dean gets that. Cas is an angel. He’s been told his whole life he was created perfect. Warrior of God and all that.

“I suppose,” says Cas, and that’s a hint of wonder in his voice; “I suppose — your answer holds for me as well. But I do wish it hadn’t taken so many — iterations.”

Dean frowns. “Iterations?”

Cas furrows his brow, hesitating, then opens his mouth to answer. But then Rachel’s reading out the final question, cutting him off: _“If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?”_

There’s the usual swell of chatter; a few laughs. Cas looks lost, this new thought tangled with the one halfway to his mouth, and Dean’s feeling brave suddenly — shy, but brave. Enough to look up into Cas’s eyes and ask, “Can I answer for you?”

Cas tilts his head, which Dean takes as a yes.

“Earlier,” he says. “The dinner thing — my real answer. It’s you. Only, you can taste everything. Like you could when you were human. That’s what I want.”

He doesn’t let himself look away from Cas’s face. He watches his words register; watches Cas’s eyes widen, his lips part in a tiny _o_ of surprise.

It feels a little good, Dean reflects later, that he can still surprise the guy who knows everything about him. That he’s still got some tricks up his sleeve.

\---

Thomas and Laura invite them to play croquet after the group adjourns. Dean doesn’t quite know how to politely refuse, especially with Laura’s bony fingers clutching his arm. “That was _so_ fascinating, don’t you think? I had no idea Thomas was such a Salman Rushdie fan.”

Dean gives Cas a helpless look of apology. Maybe they can learn something — just because they’ve been relegated to bait doesn’t mean they’ve got no hope of turning up anything interesting.

Laura claims Cas as her teammate. Dean didn’t know croquet had teammates, but he guesses sticks him with Thomas. It’s actually kind of like pool in a way, and when he comments on that, Thomas observes, “Well, of course. It’s among the later forms of ground billiards.” Dean decides to leave well enough alone.

They gossip about the other couples at the retreat. About jobs and in-laws and home repairs. Chat about their children — Cas has a surprisingly detailed grasp of Claire’s interests, Dean discovers. “Is she dating?” Laura asks. “Our Saretta — oh, I almost wish she would.”

Cas looks thoughtful. “There’s a — young woman who I believe shares her interest,” he says eventually. “But they are —” he uses careful air quotes — “‘taking it slow.’”

When the hell Cas and Claire had time for a relationship heart-to-heart, Dean doesn’t know. He takes his shot — misses — and straightens. “Kaia’s just back from a, uh. Study abroad situation,” he says. “Might be good to not jump into things.”

Laura sighs. “Your Claire sounds like a sensible young woman. Is she your only child?”

They haven’t prepared for this question. Dean feels a surge of panic, and before his brain has time to catch up with his tongue, he’s saying, “There’s also — Jack.”

Cas goes kind of still. His eyes are on Dean.

It’s not really a sore subject between them, not anymore. Jack seems happy with his new role presiding over Heaven. But Dean still feels — he doesn’t know. He’s got a lot to make up for with Cas about that. More than he ever really can.

“He’s, uh,” he adds, fumbling. “Out of the house now. Got a place of his own. Good kid.”

“He’s older?” Thomas asks, but Dean can’t look over at him, can’t answer; his eyes are caught in Cas’s. Heart a lump in his throat.

Cas’s eyes hold Dean’s a beat longer before he looks over at Thomas. “Younger, actually. But he’s very advanced for his age.”

The conversation carries on from there. Cas sends his ball through a wicket that makes Laura jump and clutch her hands in excitement. Dean looks on, feeling obscurely like he’s just passed some kind of test.

\---

In the end, they learn absolutely nothing, except that Cas is surprisingly good at croquet. Dean blames angel skills. It’s got to be in the same department as that blade-spinny thing he does, somehow.

He tells him so, when they duck back to their room before lunch. Cas gives him a warm sideways smile. Then Dean unlocks the door and bites down on an undignified yelp when he sees Claire waiting inside, lounging across their bed.

“Stop _doing_ that,” he tells her, and she smirks.

“Great news,” she declares, swinging herself upright. “They’re making all the kids write letters to their future selves.”

Dean blinks. Sounds excruciating. “And that’s good news?”

“It’s good news if they keep them all. And they do.” Her grin widens. “Figure I’ll try and nick them when everyone goes to bed tonight. Any news your end?”

“Nope,” says Dean.

Cas looks thoughtful. “There weren’t any records of deaths at the retreats, were there? Before the hauntings began?”

Claire’s face falls, just a little. “Nothing. If it weren’t so obviously a ghost situation —”

“Could be a poltergeist,” Dean points out. Poltergeists aren’t necessarily attached like regular ghosts to the remnants of their own lives; they’re just dicks with a talent for throwing shit around. He fucking hopes it’s not a poltergeist.

“I don’t think so,” says Cas slowly. “The pattern doesn’t fit. Maybe there’s something we’re missing — a death that didn’t technically happen during the retreat?”

“I could see what I can get out of that chick Rachel,” Dean volunteers. “Get a little flirt on.”

Claire and Cas both turn their heads to stare at him.

A second ticks by, then another. Dean crosses his arms. “What?”

“You’re supposed to be _married,”_ says Claire.

Dean snorts. “What, like married people never —”

Claire throws her hands up. “You know what? Fine. Whatever floats your boat. So long as you’re back to help go through the letters later, you and _Rachel_ can do whatever you like.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest — what exactly, he doesn’t know. Before he can, the overhead light flickers, once.

Cas looks up.

“Hey ghostie,” Dean says.

It doesn’t flicker again.

\---

Getting Rachel alone is surprisingly difficult — or maybe it shouldn’t be surprising. It takes Dean until after dinner. By then he’s learned the names of all the bartenders. He orders a couple cocktails — he can be classy — and carries them to the secluded outdoor table where Rachel’s sitting, scribbling busily on a notepad.

“You look like you could use one of these,” he advises, drawing out the chair opposite her. “Take a break.”

He sees the hesitation register in her eyes. Then she smiles, with dimples — she’s really pretty cute. “What are my options?”

“We got a,” Dean raises one glass, “white port G&T with muddled lime, and a — brown derby. Bourbon, grapefruit, honey, and rosemary. I knew about both of these before today, I swear.”

He’s rewarded with a laugh. “The bourbon one sounds excellent,” says Rachel. “Thank you.”

Dean passes it over and takes a sip of the gin and tonic. It’s — not bad, actually. He says as much, and Rachel laughs again.

It’s pretty easy to get her talking from there. Dean’s aware that he has a certain advantage in the looks department, but he’s not bad at this game. Before long, she’s got her notepad closed; she’s talking with her hands.

“So how long you been doing this, anyway?” Dean asks, after a while; he’s down to his cocktail dregs. “This whole retreat thing?”

She smiles, a little softer. “About five years. My mother and I started it. She would be here, but she’s recovering from hip surgery. I don’t usually talk about that, actually — I like to keep the focus on the participants — but I was adopted. She and I went through some hard times about it, and came out stronger.”

Dean swallows. Nods. “Your father — or —?”

The smile stays on Rachel’s face, but it’s a little fixed. “He died.”

“Ah. I’m sorry.” It’s awkward, but Dean’s done enough of these in his life to just plow on. “Recently?”

She sighs. “No, a while back — eleven years ago.”

Dean nods. “And, uh. Have there — been any? Recent deaths? Like on the retreat, or anything?”

It’s not his best work.

Rachel’s face folds into a sort of a frown. She gives him a dubious look, then says, “There was a — um. It wasn’t during the retreat, but a couple days later, one of our kids died. We were in — Chattanooga, that weekend. They stayed in the area to do some more rock-climbing afterward, and there was an accident. It hit the whole staff pretty hard.” She smiles again, a little bravely.

“What was the kid’s name?”

The smile freezes. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

Shit. Dean kicks himself, mentally — he’s lost the momentum he had. But maybe he just needs to get her a little more liquored up. “Grab you another?” he asks, holding a hand out of her empty glass.

She doesn’t pass it over.

“Dean,” she says instead, “what are you doing here?”

It’s Dean’s turn to freeze. 

“You’re married to Castiel, right?”

The words still do stupid things to his chest. He manages, after a moment, “I —”

“Listen,” says Rachel, and she looks kind of sad. “I see a lot of couples come through. And there are some beautiful marriages out there — but there isn’t one in a thousand who look at each other like Castiel looks at you.”

Dean feels his shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to hear it. He can take a whole lot of shit in this world, but someone telling him the thing with Cas is real — that’s where he draws the line. He doesn’t need that kind of hope fucking with his brain.

_World champion starer,_ he reminds himself. _She just hasn’t met a weird fallen angel before._

“If I had that —”

She stops, smoothing a hand over her papers. For a moment, she looks sad.

“Well.” She gathers her things. “I wouldn’t be over here, buying drinks for me. But thank you all the same.”

\---

Claire and Cas are both frosty toward him that night. Which is some kind of bullshit, Dean thinks, given that he brought them a lead.

He assigns himself the task of chasing down each name from the Chattanooga file — obits, news items, anything he can find. It’s frustratingly difficult. He finds the article in the _Chattanooga Times Free Press_ pretty readily, brief and sketchy on details: a family vacationing in the area lost their son in a rock-climbing accident. Which at least gives them a gender, but not much else.

And the names from that retreat are infuriatingly generic. Henry Green. John Lewis. Daniel Savoy. They can rule out a few, at least, but most of them could be any of a dozen or more kids in the country.

“If we had the parents’ information,” Dean points out, “or their medical info — dates of birth and stuff —”

“That’s all encrypted,” Claire reminds him. “The letters are the only thing that’s not electronic.”

The letters _are_ full of interesting information. Tales of retreat hook-ups — Cas reads a little too much of that one out loud before Dean and Claire both scramble to yank it away. Revelations of their parents’ secrets. Some of the kids talk about their parents a lot; others barely at all. Some are angry and some have nothing but praise.

“I also pulled the letters of the kids whose parents were attacked,” Claire says. “There’s exceptions, but — it seems like a fair number of them were mad at one of their parents or both. A couple of them mention infidelity. Maybe that’s something.”

They go back through the Chattanooga kids in search of one who might fit into the pattern, but it’s hard to tie anything together. The kids talk about everything from astrology to mosquitoes to career choices. Where their parents intersect with their lives — well, it’s messy, to be honest. There’s no blinking arrow pointing straight at the suspect.

“We _do_ know Rachel’s dad’s dead,” Dean points out. “I don’t think we should totally rule him out.”

“What’s the motive, though?” Claire has a point — Mr. Armitage died peacefully in his sleep after a battle of lymphoma. Every obituary of him is glowing. Even the news articles written in his lifetime describing him as a gentle, loving man — someone who would never hurt a fly. It’s hard to project that into vengeful spirit territory. Though if there’s one thing Dean’s learned from this job, it’s never to say never.

In the end, they adjourn for the night with little more certainty than they had at the start of it. “Maybe I’ll talk up how I’m mad at you guys,” Claire says. “Try and draw it in. I can bitch about Dean being unfaithful.” She shoots him a look.

“We’re _not really married,”_ Dean says, for about the tenth time that night, and Claire flaps a hand at him in dismissal.

It’s enough to make him a feel a little awkward, though. Especially once Claire is gone and it’s just him and Cas, getting ready for bed together. “You’re not actually mad at me for the Rachel thing, right?” Dean asks him.

Cas hesitates a moment before answering. “I’m — perfectly aware of the circumstances,” he says, which isn’t really an answer.

Dean lies awake for long hours that night. Thinking about the warmth of Cas’s body, a mere foot away from him. Watching his sleeping face.

_World champion starer._ Yeah, Cas is intense, and yeah, he’s — fucking _hot,_ Dean’s pretty sure you’d have to be blind not to see that. He’s also pissy and eccentric. Far too direct sometimes and incomprehensible at others. He likes Netflix and sugary cereal and Dean, apparently, which is more than Dean deserves. And Dean loves him.

He allows himself, just for a moment, to imagine acting on it. Scooting closer, stretching out a hand and slipping it under Cas’s shirt. He could pass it off as half-asleep instinct, he thinks. He could wait and see how Cas reacts — decide whether he’s gonna tilt his chin so their mouths come together or just burrow sleepily into Cas’s shoulder.

He could slip his land lower, if Cas was into that.

He’s up half the night imagining dirty things. Filthy things. Half-awake Cas with his hands in Dean’s hair — fingertips pressing down like they’re mapping his skull. Cas guiding him down, down — slipping a thumb in Dean’s mouth right alongside his dick —

Dean shifts onto his back. He’s so hard it hurts a little. He keeps his hands by his sides. If Cas were to wake up now —

He imagines Cas growling and flipping him. Pressing Dean into the mattress — fucking his face. ‘Til his jaw feels like it’s gonna crack open and he’s making desperate noises — wordless, fucked-out noises — begging for more.

Cas could be like that, Dean thinks. Probably. If Dean asked him to. He could also be tender — long arms wrapped around Dean after, warm chest to Dean’s back, hands jacking him slow.

There’s an ache behind his sternum. It kind of matches the one between his legs.

Dean gives up on falling asleep.

He slinks away to the bathroom and jerks himself off in the shower, forehead pressed to the tile. When he comes, it’s so hard he whites out for an instant, sinks into the tub and sits there for long minutes underneath the hot spray.

He disturbs the covers as little as possible when he goes back to bed. Slides carefully between the sheets, flat on his back, just far enough that he’s not falling off the edge.

Cas makes a vague, sleepy noise and rolls over. His hand lands on Dean’s shoulder. The warm skin there, still shower-damp, enough to make his fingertips cling.

Dean lies perfectly still. He doesn’t get an instant of sleep for the rest of the night.

\---

If there’s anything weird between them in the morning, Cas doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles at Dean just like he always does, knots his tie with the usual amount of fumbling, pulls his trenchcoat on over his shoulders. Over breakfast, he says, “You look tired, Dean,” with an awkward smile of concern in the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I slept great,” Dean lies, and pours himself another cup of coffee.

There’s a laugh from Gina and Evan’s table, their heads leaning close, and it occurs to Dean, suddenly, that everyone else in this room is real-married. Or, well, real-significant-othered, or something. Everyone else in this room might have had real, actual sex last night, with their real-life partner. Who they love; who knows they love them.

The unfairness of it rises up suddenly in his throat, choking him. Dean spent so long feeling like he was supposed to want some apple pie life — like Dad, like Sam. Marry a girl. Settle down. And he _did_ always want that, he wanted — _home_ — and Lisa and Ben were fucking incredible, they didn’t deserve any of his shit, but — but now he has it. Kind of. He’s got a home, a real one, and a guy who means the world to share it with him, and Dean can only look. Never touch.

He’s so fucking lucky. It’s pretty bullshit of him to want more.

“All right,” says Rachel over the microphone, “as you can see on your program, this morning we’ll be embarking on our second session of the _36 Questions That Lead to Love.”_

Great, Dean thinks. Just what he needs. Just peachy.

\---

It’s about as bad as the last session. Then it gets worse.

_“If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?”_

There was a time when Dean would’ve wanted to know a lot. Do we beat this apocalypse, or that one, and how; is Dad okay; is Sam okay; is Cas okay. Or maybe: how much of Dean’s life did Chuck write for him. How much of his self. How much of the people who love him. Or maybe: how and when and why is he actually gonna permanently die.

He doesn’t really want to know any of those things anymore. He’s found his own answers or made peace with his own unknowns. There’s also the question he hasn’t made peace with — the last twenty-four hours are testament to that — but he can’t say that one out loud.

“I’d want to know — about my past,” Cas says. “What they wiped from me, before I met you.”

Dean’s a fucking asshole.

He punts. “I’d wanna know how that damn crystal ball works. Probably cursed. We might need to destroy it.”

Cas gives him a look, long and piercing, and doesn’t answer.

_“Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”_

This is just more things Dean can’t say. He can’t tell Cas he’d like to wind that perennial blue tie around his fingers; that he’d like to pull him in by it. That he’d like there to be an instant — just an instant — of hesitation, eyes locking with too-close eyes, before they kiss.

He makes up some bullshit about chupacabras. Cas doesn’t call him on it. He lets Dean ramble. He never actually answers for himself.

_“What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?”_

There’s a long silence. They’ve each accomplished kind of a lot, if they’re willing to admit it; they’ve saved people. They’ve saved the _world._

Fucked it up pretty often though, too.

Finally, Cas coughs lightly. “Myself,” he says, like he’s only just discovering it. “That I am free.”

Dean’s throat is tight and hot. He doesn’t need to say _Sammy._ Cas knows.

_“What do you value most in friendship?”_

His knuckles are white where he’s gripping his own hands on the table. He can’t think of a single thing to say that isn’t bullshit. What the hell does a person value most in friendship? _Loyalty_ is stupid. What else? Sense of humor? Honesty? The way they look at you and squint the corners of their eyes?

It’s dumb to value any of those things most in friendship. The thing you should value most in friendship is the friend.

_“What is your most treasured memory?”_

Dean’s lost the plot of these questions. They’re supposed to have five minutes to answer each, or something like that, but he can’t recall unglueing his tongue from the roof of his mouth since — he isn’t sure. The gears of his brain-voice connection have ground to a halt.

At least Cas seems to be in kind of the same boat.

_“What is your most terrible memory?”_

Cas’s mouth opens and closes twice before sound comes out. When it does, it rasps, then settles to the pitch of gravel that makes Dean feel weak around his knees.

“They’re the same,” says Cas. “Raising you. Raising you from hell.”

\---

Afterward, both of them are still a little glassy with shock, and Dean takes Cas bird-watching, because Cas keeps saying he wants to.

The pamphlet they were given has bright photographs of birds. Scarlet tanagers and black-and-white warblers and hermit thrushes, which look drab and brown but the pamphlet says _“fill the woods with their ethereal, flute-like song.”_

“Okay,” says Dean, “which ones do you want to see?”

Cas scrunches up his face like he’s thinking. “I don’t think it works like that. You go out and see what comes to you, not the other way around.”

_Bet you could angel up some Disney princess shit and call them all right to your hands,_ Dean thinks, but out loud he only says, “I wanna see the rose-breasted grosbeak. Or a — yellow-bellied sapsucker, is that seriously a thing?”

They don’t see a single bird.

Cas insists he glimpses one flitting away in the undergrowth at one point, but Dean’s pretty sure he’s making it up. They occasionally hear random chirps and twittering, but whenever Dean whips up the retreat-furnished binoculars to where he thought it was, there’s only gently waving leaves.

“Sorry, buddy,” he says eventually. “Maybe it’s not — the right time of year for birds.”

“It’s the peak of the breeding season,” Cas mutters distractedly, and then, “Dean — Dean, did you hear that?”

Dean frowns. “What?” he starts to say, and Cas puts a hand over his mouth to shush him. His other hand lands on Dean’s arm, just above his elbow, and clamps there. 

They wait like that for a second. Two. Then, from far off, Dean hears it.

It’s true to its advertising. Flute-like. Ethereal. A tumble of notes, tripping up a flight of stairs, but it doesn’t sound rushed. There’s a long note first, held for a moment, like someone tuning an instrument. Making sure it’ll sound perfect before they launch in.

“Hermit thrush?” asks Dean softly.

Cas nods, a look of deep satisfaction glowing on his face. “Hermit thrush.”

They listen to it for ten minutes more. It’s far off — it strains Dean’s hearing. He feels spell-bound, caught in stillness here in these magical woods, Cas’s hands rooting him where he stands.

Eventually the song ends and doesn’t start again. They stir slowly; Dean’s skin tingles where Cas releases him.

“Thank you,” Cas says, heartfelt, as if Dean has done a goddamn thing.

He feels tongue-tied. Like all the answers he couldn’t find earlier are suddenly tripping each other to get out. He swallows twice, convulsively, and then what he says is, “Cas, I — what did you mean yesterday? About iterations?”

Cas looks startled. He opens his mouth, closes it. Then the corner of his lips lifts a little and he says, “Naomi told me once — after I stole the angel tablet — that I’d always been a spanner in the works. That there were many times they broke into my head to wash it clean.”

Dean thinks of Cas, cold-eyed and terrible, hammering a fist into his face. Over and over again. Of the blade slipping from Cas’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it with everything he has. And then, awkwardly: “Is that what you meant about — wanting to know your past?”

Cas tilts his head. “I do remember some. People, places — more than I used to. I only wonder —”

He pauses.

Dean shifts on his feet. He feels big and rough and dumb. _Mud-monkey,_ Cas’s asshole ex-buddy would’ve called him. “You can say it,” he manages. “I can listen, even if I can’t understand.”

But Cas smiles. “I wonder if I loved those people,” he says simply. “If that’s why I rebelled. It’s the only thing I can think of that makes sense. But it is hard to imagine ever having loved anyone as I love you.”

Dean gapes. Then he chokes.

“Thanks, buddy,” he manages after a moment, crimson-faced. He knows how to play this off — make a joke of it, clap Cas on the shoulder with an _Aw pal, I love you too,_ but he. Can’t. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do with that, with any of this goddamn day —

Cas is still smiling. “You know, they — they made a thousand Dean Winchesters for me to kill. To numb me to it. They didn’t understand, though. None of them felt like you at all.”

\---

At lunch, they reunite the parents with the kids.

Dean hadn’t realized it was coming this fast. They’ve only got a few hours of retreat left — the final _36 Questions_ session, then dinner, then they’re done. They have the option to stay another night — he and Cas and Claire all are, in case they need the time to wrap up the case — but that’s it for formal activities.

It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours. Before this case, Dean would’ve snorted at the idea that two days, some lawn games, and some invasive questions could change anyone or anything. Now he feels like a strange new person walking around in his own familiar skin.

He keeps thinking: _So, what would happen if I acted on it? Like, really — what’s the worst possible thing?_

Maybe it would turn things awkward. Break something between him and Cas for good. But it’s hard to imagine a guy who could stand there in the forest and look in Dean’s eyes and tell him he loves him — who could _kill him a thousand times_ and break that programming — who’s seen Dean at his absolute fucking worst in the Pit, touched him and raised him and made him whole — up and leaving because things are a little awkward. Hell, Cas is already awkward; he’s always been awkward. It’s one of the many things that make Dean want to kiss him stupid.

It’s hard to imagine Cas leaving. Dean never thought he’d say that. Doesn’t make it any less true.

He shoves the thought aside when Claire plops down at their table. The other kids are already filtering in, finding their parents; some of them are getting up and embracing. Cas looks for a moment like he’s about to follow suit before Claire gives him a sharp smile that says _yeah, no way._

“So,” she says in an undertone, leaning forward. “I kinda don’t know what else to do here. This ghost hasn’t shown itself even once; I’ve done everything I can to talk up how I hate you guys and you’re the worst, but you haven’t been attacked yet, have you?”

Dean shakes his head. Cas frowns.

Claire sighs. “I mean, maybe it’s moved on.”

“I don’t think so,” Cas says slowly. “It wouldn’t make sense — it’s happened at more than a dozen of these retreats now, right?”

“And the connection between angry kids and attacked parents,” Dean adds. “I mean, that seems pretty solid.”

Claire makes a fist around the handle of her fork. “I just wish I had the first idea on _motive._ Like did ghost-kid resent his adoptive parents? Was he abused? Is he trying to free other kids from the same, or — maybe he’s trying to punish them. The kids. Make them appreciate their parents by threatening to take them away.”

Cas looks thoughtful, but Dean shakes his head. “I mean, that’s — listen. There’s as many kinds of fucked up parent-kid relationships as there are parents and kids. Trust me; you’re gonna go crazy if you start looking for a pattern to give meaning to all that.”

“What if,” says Cas slowly. “What if there’s no pattern at all?”

Claire frowns for a moment, considering, then opens her mouth to respond. But Dean thinks he gets where Cas is going with this.

“Sometimes ghosts don’t have — bad intentions,” he says, thinking of Bobby. “They just get angrier, the longer they’re stuck on earth, and when they’re around someone else angry —”

He’s cut off by a rapidly rising voice from the next table.

It’s Saretta — Laura and Thomas’s daughter. “You guys don’t _get_ it!” She’s shoving her chair back, one fist pounding on the table and making the silverware rattle —

— only it doesn’t stop rattling.

The forks and knives jump and judder on the tablecloth. A pepper shaker is beginning to tip back and forth on its base. Laura looks shocked, her frizzy hair even frizzier than usual — only, Dean realizes after an instant, that’s because it’s being plucked from its pins by a sudden cold wind. He exhales, and he can see his breath.

Slowly, incrementally, the pepper shaker rises off the table.

Dean glances quickly at Cas. They need to do something — but what? He’s only got a bit of iron on him, not much more salt, but neither matters until the ghost manifests. Meanwhile there’s a roomful of people craning their heads to see what’s going on —

“Okay, says Claire loudly. She’s rising in her seat, leveling an accusing finger at Dean. “So what, you’re screwing some floozy? And you’re letting him?”

She’s pointing at Cas now. “Fuck you,” she says. “And _especially_ —” back to Dean again — “fuck you.”

And she flips the table over.

Someone screams.

There’s plates and silverware falling everywhere. The candle lands and spills hot wax, and a flame starts licking at the tablecloth — Dean lunges to stomp it out and falls, feet tangled in the legs of the table and chair. For an instant, there’s flame right next to his face, then a sudden splash of cold water.

He’s blind for a second. When he spits and blinks his eyes clear, the fire’s out, and Laura’s staring down at him in horror, empty glass in her hand. “Are you all right?”

“I’m — I’m fine.” Dean levers himself up on his elbows. He can see Claire storming out of the room, blonde curls flying; can see Cas looking uncertainly between her at the door and Dean on the carpet. “I’m fine,” he says again, for Cas this time. _“Go.”_

Cas hurries after Claire.

It takes Dean a moment to right himself enough to assess the situation.

If Claire’s goal was to bait the ghost into coming after Dean, it doesn’t seem to have worked. No cutlery is making unexpected movements. He’s wet and tangled in tablecloth, but his breath doesn’t fog before his face. Everything is as it should be — except for the mess in the middle of the dining room. Except for the dozens of faces staring at him.

Dean sighs and pastes on a smile. “All good here,” he says, raising his hands as if in surrender. “Just gonna — go change into something dry.”

He sees Rachel’s stare following him, frozen in shock, all the way out the door.

\---

Dean doesn’t go directly to change into something dry. Instead, he hunts down Cas and Claire in one of the courtyards.

“Anything?” he asks sharply, but he knows from Cas’s sorrowful squint and the pissed-off look on Claire’s face that their ghost has fucked right off again. He sighs. “Normally it ain’t so easy to spook a spook.”

“Someone needs to keep an eye on Saretta’s parents,” Claire says. “It might come back.”

“I’ll do it,” Cas immediately volunteers. “Dean, maybe I’ll — ask them to play croquet again. You could find us there?”

“I’ll bring some more supplies, too,” Dean agrees, thinking of what he’s got. Plenty of salt, and those iron throwing stars are pretty cool, but — “I’d feel a hell of a lot better if we could carry shotguns around this place.”

“Well, we can’t,” says Claire, and she isn’t wrong.

Once Dean’s changed, he finds Cas and Laura and Thomas not on the croquet lawn but the bocce court. There’s a look of intense concentration on Cas’s face when he throws the jack, and Dean stands back for a moment to admire it. God, he’s — he’s fucking _gone_ for this guy.

The weird thing is, it isn’t actually that weird. All this fake-marriage crap. Took some getting used to at first, but it’s not like they’ve even had to change their rhythms all that much. Dean and Cas get on well together. They always have. It’s weird when someone _says_ it, sure — the M-word — but when they’re hanging out with Gina and Evan, or Thomas and Laura, it barely even feels like they don’t belong.

When he approaches, though, and they turn to look at him, there’s something different in Laura’s face. Something like — nerves? Thomas still has his customary smile on, a genial, vaguely rumpled one, like he’s happy to go on whatever ride his wife takes him. Laura flashes a grin and then says, “Dean — we had something we wanted to ask you. You and Castiel.”

Dean shoots a look at Cas, and he looks as clueless as Dean feels. He doesn’t make a conscious choice to gravitate closer, but somehow they do, arm bumping against hip.

“We, uh,” says Laura. “Well. We couldn’t help but overhear Claire’s accusations at lunch, and we’ve been through so much similar with Saretta, but we — ah. We thought. If you’re so inclined, and you were — interested — well, we —”

Cas’s squint deepens. This is the confused one, and it’s kind of insane that Dean knows so many varieties of Castiel squints.

“I mean,” says Laura, “we’ll be here for another night.” She twists her hands.

And Dean gets it.

“You’re swingers!” he says, somewhat louder than he intends.

Laura jumps, then shoots a furtive glance around, but there’s no one in earshot. Thomas places a hand on her shoulder, comforting. “Yes,” he says, “and we certainly apologize if we’ve misread your own inclinations, but we don’t believe we have.”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Suddenly, Cas is gripping his wrist, vise-tight. “Say yes,” he whispers in Dean’s ear.

Dean jolts. “What?”

“Say yes. If we’re putting on a charade that I’m angry with you for sleeping around —”

“Cas,” Dean says. He realizes he’s gaping. He closes his mouth, swallows. He’s in the crosshairs of a different Cas squint, now — it’s a shade of his angry squint. The _why-aren’t-you-doing-what-I-tell-you_ squint.

“I, uh,” he says, and remembers belatedly to turn back to Thomas and Laura. “Yeah. I’d — that sounds awesome.”

He feels Cas drop his arm like a lead weight. Step back, and his eyes are cold.

For a moment Dean forgets it’s an act. “Cas —”

“Enjoy yourself, Dean,” says Cas, like he’d as soon say _go fuck yourself,_ and storms off without another word.

\---

It takes all the resolve Dean has to stay with Thomas and Laura instead of going after Cas.

He knows that it’s what he’s supposed to do. They’re civilians, in need of protection; Cas set things up this way. But Cas is also making himself into bait, maybe, alone somewhere, and as much as Dean knows he can handle himself — he doesn’t have to _like_ it.

It doesn’t help that Laura and Thomas keep shooting him awkward looks, like they think he should go after Cas, too; it doesn’t help when Thomas takes his arm in a friendly way and says, “Listen, if your husband doesn’t want — we wouldn’t want to get between the two of you, but —”

“I’ll talk to him,” Dean says, forcing a smile. It’ll be easy enough to eventually beg out of whatever rendezvous Thomas and Laura have planned, but: “Give him time. He’ll come around.”

Time, though, is the one thing they don’t really have.

They’re quickly running out of retreat. The afternoon dwindles without another sign of the ghost. When Dean finally peels away from Thomas and Laura for the final “36 Questions” session — it’s on the schedule as _Conversations: Part 3_ — he finds Cas already at their table, waiting for him.

“I’m sorry for acting angry,” Cas says in an undertone when Dean slides into his seat. “You understand it’s only for the case.”

_We’re not really married,_ Dean thinks, his own words mocking him, and nods.

Rachel looks kind of tired. “It’s time,” she says, in a thinner voice than usual, “for our third and final installment of the ‘36 Questions That Lead to Love.’”

It’s weird that Dean doesn’t even feel that scared of what’s about to happen. A little sad about it, maybe; this might be his last chance to delude himself into thinking this thing with Cas could be real. This might be the closest he ever comes to saying it out loud.

He folds his hands on the table and looks into Cas’s eyes and waits for whatever’s gonna come.

But the questions are easier this time. Dean’s not sure if that’s how they’re written or he’s just run out of fucks to give; either way, he has no problem answering. He can tell Cas some things he likes about him, no problem. He can tell him he’d like to share his record collection with someone — like to sit and listen, point out the guitar nerd shit and just soak up the words. That he did that a little with Jack, and he’s still not sure where to settle the lump of _meaning_ that left in his chest; that he’s never been sure if Cas listened to his Zeppelin mixtape or not.

“I listened to it,” Cas says, clearly surprised. “I still do.”

Cas tells him shit, too. “I am afraid,” he says carefully, “of overstaying my welcome,” when Rachel asks, _If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know._ His eyes are on his hands, and so Dean reaches out to place his own over the top of them — to make Cas look at him, even if it’s only at his chapped knuckles, his blunt nails.

“I’m afraid of you leaving,” he says roughly. “Your welcome doesn’t have a limit, Cas. And it’s — it’s not a welcome, it’s a home.”

Cas’s eyes tick up to meet his. They look warm, but they don’t look surprised.

Rachel asks them to tell embarrassing stories. Dean doesn’t even get a chance to answer, because he’s too busy laughing — Cas keeps going on about his time as a human, his initial struggles with toothpaste and laundry and urination. He’s smiling when he says, “But the most embarrassing — was when I realized Nora wanted me as a babysitter, not a date.”

Dean whistles through his teeth. “Yeah, that’s a rough one, buddy.”

“I thought about lying to you,” Cas adds, his tone thoughtful. “I didn’t want you to know. You’d been talking to me like I — might be desirable, and I didn’t want you to think any different.”

Dean’s heart step-stutters pleasantly in his chest.

Rachel asks what one item they’d save in a fire. Dean makes a joke about his memory foam mattress, but the answer is his family photos; Cas knows it. Calls him on it, and they both laugh.

_“Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing?”_

It’s a weird question to ask a Winchester, given how much experience they all have. For most of his life, Dean’s answer has been Sam. It still is — he’s never gonna be chill with losing his brother, not ever — but there’s more than one answer nowadays.

“You and Sammy,” he says. “It’s a tie.”

Cas blinks. His brow furrows. It looks like it takes him a couple minutes to process Dean’s words, and then he shakes his head.

“Dean,” he says gently, “you don’t have to say things to make me feel — remember, I was there when Lucifer killed Sam. I know how —”

“Yeah, well,” Dean interrupts. “You weren’t there to see me when Lucifer killed you.”

Cas blinks again. Very hard.

That’s about when Dean knows he’s gonna do it.

_“Share a personal problem,”_ says Rachel, _“and ask your partner’s advice on how he or she might handle it.”_

Okay, so he’s gonna do it now.

Dean swallows.

“There’s someone,” he says, “who’s a friend.”

Cas has his mouth open to speak too, but he’s been outdrawn. He closes it.

“A best friend,” Dean adds, in case he’s not making himself perfectly fucking clear. “Only, I kind of want them to be more.”

Cas is just staring at him. Dean’s nerves, weirdly quiet for a moment there, come back at a full roar. But he plows on.

“And I’m not sure — I’ve always been afraid of ruining a good thing by saying it. I don’t know that they’d even be interested.”

That’s where his words run out.

It takes Cas a moment to answer. He folds his hands and unfolds them; Dean can see him run his tongue along the inside of his teeth.

“I’m facing a — similar problem,” he says finally. “I wish I could offer you the wisdom of experience, but I think perhaps — perhaps you should try telling them anyway.”

Dean blinks. He processes. “Okay,” he says, after a moment.

“Okay,” Cas agrees.

The microphone squeals suddenly with feedback. Dean glances up sharply in case of the ghost, but — it’s just Rachel, looking embarrassed. “That concludes our final question,” she says, grasping for equanimity. “Finally, we ask you to — look into your partner’s eyes. This is not a staring contest — you may feel free to blink, but do your best not to look away. Four minutes, starting — now.”

Dean turns back to look at Cas.

Cas is smiling.

It turns out, Dean realizes, that he doesn’t just know Cas’s squints; he also knows his smiles.

The most frequent is a fond one, sort of proud — he levels that one toward Jack or Claire, sometimes Dean, sometimes even himself. Then there’s one that’s wide and laughing, usually startled by it — the one that pulls Cas’s face helplessly open, crinkles his eyes and shows his teeth.

This one’s different.

Cas looks _happy._ All-the-way happy and glowing with it; happy like his eyes are blue wells to the sky. A kind of happy that Dean’s not sure he’s seen on Cas, not ever, and if he thought — if he thought Cas was attractive before —

He’s beautiful like this. Straight-up _beautiful._

A little laugh of wonder huffs out of Dean’s lungs, unasked for. His instinct is to drop his eyes, but he’s not supposed to, and Cas can maybe sense that because he reaches out and takes Dean’s hands across the table — both of them. He holds him there.

_World champion starer._ Dean’s got plenty of experience with Cas staring into his soul. Always like he’s trying to figure something out, though; like there’s something in there to unravel. Never like he sees Dean plain and wants to keep looking anyway.

Except that’s a lie, Dean thinks, because Cas has always seen him plain. Cas has always _known_ him, inside and out. More than anyone else in the goddamn world.

He can see himself reflected in Cas’s eyes — his own unshielded gaze. He looks a little soft, a little overwhelmed. A little bit — the corner of his mouth quirks, the skin around his eyes crinkles — a little bit helplessly happy.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when they start laughing.

It begins in both of their chests at the same time. Exuberance bubbling to get out — Dean can feel his own grin widening, see Cas’s dimpling, and his ribs are shaking. He’s trembling all over with the effort of not snorting out loud — this is ridiculous. This is incredible, and ridiculous, and as soon as their four minutes are up Dean’s going to kiss this man, this man who’s an angel who loves him, this man Dean would die for but better yet _live_ for, kiss him and keep kissing him ‘til the clocks run out of time.

It almost takes him by surprise when it happens. The endless moment of anticipation has swallowed him, and then Rachel’s saying, “Well, that concludes our —”

And Cas is yanking Dean to his feet. They nearly knock over the table again; they trip out into the hall. Dean can feel eyes following them, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care when the glass door shudders closed behind them; he doesn’t care when Cas presses his back to the wall. He doesn’t care when he spins Cas, pins him instead, and kisses him, like he’s been wanting to do for _years,_ like he’s been wanting to do for four solid minutes of staring into each other’s eyes.

Cas shudders against him and opens his mouth.

His hands are in Dean’s hair. Cupping the back of his neck; skating down his shoulders, his back. They aren’t light, and they aren’t tentative; he’s touching Dean like he can’t get enough of him. Like he needs as much of him as he can possibly reach.

And his mouth —

Dean groans into it, because Cas is _good_ at kissing, way better than he has any right to be. He’s got a hand inside Dean’s shirt now, rucking his flannel and his t-shirt out of the way, and his palm on the bare skin of Dean’s hip is a shock — a revelation. Dean takes the instant of distraction to drop his mouth to Cas’s throat, and Cas gasps and squirms, baring it further.

Then there’s a loud crash behind him. He springs back.

One of the courtyard tables is upended, chairs scattered everywhere. A wind rocks the flowerbed, spraying mulch, and there’s a pale form flickering beside it. Just a kid, fists balled at his sides, flyaway mouse-brown hair —

— and Claire’s skidding up, a handful of envelopes in her hands and her face flushed with excitement. “John Lewis!” she cries. “Gotcha.” And she’s got salt, and a lighter; and the ghost shrieks up in flames.

In the silence that follows, her chest heaves once, twice. “I figured out that it must be attached to a letter,” she says, “and I found the kids’ photos — as soon as he manifested, I had him dead to rights —”

“Claire,” says Cas, not unkindly, back still pressed to the wall. “We’re very proud of you. But we’ve been learning all weekend to make space for our own needs and desires, and right now —”

Claire grins. “You guys are so gross,” she says. “Get a room.” And she gathers the scattered envelopes around her and jogs away.

\---

Dean would really, really like to get a room. They _have_ a room. It’s in the next building, and he would not mind at all taking Cas back there and — finding out what else he’s good at. That sounds pretty great.

It’s not what happens, though. What happens is that Cas kisses him stupid for ten more minutes or so and then pulls back and says, regret coloring his voice, “I need to go find Rachel.”

That’s how Dean learns there are _two_ ghosts.

“Rachel didn’t realize her father was still around until pretty recently,” Cas explains. “When the other boy started haunting the retreat, he protected everyone. It’s made him more unstable, though; he says he’s ready to move on. We just need to help Rachel do it.”

Dean blinks. “And you were going to tell me this when?” he asks, and then, as the thought occurs to him: “When did you even figure this out?”

Cas gives him a look. “You were playing bocce. I thought instead of flirting with Rachel I’d try just asking her if she knew any ghosts.”

“Oh.” Dean’s not sure what else he has to say to that.

Dispatching the ghost of Rachel’s father is easy enough. He’s attached to the locket she wears around her neck, and she cries a little when she burns it. He appears briefly enough to kiss her on the forehead, and then he’s gone.

When it’s over, she gives them a watery smile. “I guess you guys worked your stuff out? Or —” the thought seems to occur to her as she’s speaking — “if you’re undercover — are you not really a couple?”

Dean opens his mouth, then realizes he’s not sure the answer to that.

“No,” says Cas, “we are.”

“Oh,” says Rachel. “Well — good.”

Dean clears his throat. “I was — that was just case stuff. Yesterday. Not that you’re not — a very attractive woman —”

Cas, mercifully, puts a hand on the small of his back to guide him away.

Then it’s time for dinner, and one more reunion with Claire. She spends most of the meal glancing between them and cackling wickedly, until Dean finally snaps and demands, “Okay, so, what — you knew this was coming? Because _I_ didn’t know this was coming.”

“Yeah, well,” says Claire, _“I’m_ not an idiot,” which, point.

Cas clears his throat. “You’re also not — our actual daughter,” he says in an undertone, leaning forward. “But we both care deeply for you, and we want you to know that — if this change is at all difficult for you —”

“Oh my God,” says Claire. She rolls her eyes to Dean as if to commiserate, but there’s suddenly a lump in his throat.

“Yeah,” he says. “What Cas said. Also, I know you’ve got a pretty great home already, but if you ever need one — you’ll always have a home with us.”

Claire’s staring at him like he’s grown an extra head.

_“Also,”_ adds Dean, thinking of Kaia, and of Cas, and of people who die and come back to life, “if you ever need any advice on like, relationship stuff —”

“I won’t be going to the guys who took over a decade to get their shit together,” Claire deadpans. “But thanks.”

Her tone is sarcastic. But there’s a hint of a blush on her cheeks.

Dean thinks that’s good enough.

\---

He bumps into Thomas outside the bathrooms in between dinner and dessert.

“Oh, uh,” he says. “Thanks for the invite, but — I’m gonna pass.”

Thomas frowns. “Dean, of course the health of your marriage is important,” he says, “but if your husband is controlling you —”

Dean laughs so hard he coughs. “Nah,” he tells Thomas. “I promise, we’re good.”

\---

It seems like hours before they’re finally walking back to their room, alone.

Cas has a little bit of pink around his ears. Dean’s pretty sure he’s got more than a little bit.

He doesn’t want to pressure Cas or anything; he doesn’t want to assume. So he lingers by the door when they walk in, watching Cas move across the room. He unknots his tie, skating it smoothly between two fingers, and Dean watches, helpless. He’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be this spellbound by the play of fabric in Cas’s hands, by the way it brushes the inside of his wrist.

He clears his throat. “So, uh. What now?”

Cas casts a sidelong look over at him. “Well,” he says slowly, “I was talking to one of the staff members, and she said the birds are more active in the evening. We could take our binoculars and go looking.”

Dean swallows his disappointment. “Right,” he says. “Yeah, of course.”

There’s a fond smile on Cas’s face as he moves closer. He sheds his trenchcoat as he goes, draping it over the armchair. Underneath he’s got just his white shirt on, and he must have undone a button or two while he was taking off his tie, because it’s open at the collar, revealing warm skin. “Dean,” he says, “I’m joking.”

The closeness of his body is a physical thing. The intent in Cas’s eyes. Dean’s skin tingles with it; unconsciously, he licks his lips.

Cas’s eyes follow the motion. “How about,” he says softly, “you tell me what you were thinking about in the shower last night. And we start from there.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in; when they do, Dean jolts. “Hey,” he says, scowling. “Are you using angel shit to spy on me?”

Cas only chuckles. His breath ghosts across Dean’s skin. “No. But I do have ears.”

Oh. Right.

Dean isn’t conscious of having backed up, but Cas somehow has him almost against the door. The bare inches between them are charged, electric. Dean wants to close them; he wants to bask in the anticipation longer. To stay in this moment for hours. Days.

Cas takes the decision away by kissing him.

And he’s right to, because this — this is even fucking better. Dean falls back against the door, and Cas is with him, chests pressed together, hands on hips; fire ignites everywhere they touch. His heart is racing, soaring. Cas is touching him all over, making quick work of buttons, intent on his task, and Dean has to grab his hands to stop him before his own system shorts out.

“Hang on, hang on,” he breathes, distracted by the pulse jumping against his fingertips. “You’re gonna — you said to tell you what I was thinking about, right? I’ll do you one better. Let me show you.”

Cas’s breath catches in his throat.

Dean levers him back an inch or two for space, keeps close; tips his chin to kiss him. Then he releases Cas’s hands and sinks slowly to his knees. Holds his gaze all the way down.

“Dean,” says Cas, helpless, eyes enormous; _“Dean,”_ again, as Dean’s hands go to work on his belt.

“Shh,” Dean tells him softly. “I got you.” And he does.

There’s plenty more he fantasized about, in last night’s shower. But they’ve got time. This’ll do for a start.

\---

Eileen’s there when they get back to the bunker. She takes one look at them, walking in the door, and holds out a hand to Sam. “Pay up.”

And — yeah, okay, so it’s not like Dean’s fighting hard to hide it. He and Cas are walking close, touching; sue him. He’s just spent twelve hours on the open road keeping his hands to himself.

Sam stares at Eileen. Then up at Dean. Then back at Eileen. “Wait — you were serious?”

Eileen smirks. She signs as she speaks, and Dean’s pretty sure she slips something in there that’s dirtier than in English: “I told him your marriage wouldn’t be fake by the time you got back.”

Dean sets down his duffel. “Technically,” he says, “we’re not really _married,”_ and he can feel Cas’s eyeroll even through the back of his head.

“Pay the woman, Sam,” Cas says. His fingertips are grazing the small of Dean’s back; he gives him a light shove in the direction of the corridor. Toward the kitchen, and the showers, and their rooms; toward various wonderful things.

Dean snorts and stifles a grin. He salutes his brother lazily. “Duty calls,” he says, and leaves Sam spluttering as he saunters away.

Let him think what he wants. Cas admitted on the ride down that his human senses are getting stronger and stronger; that taste is nearly intense now as it was when he first fell in love with peanut butter and jelly. He’s not sure what it means; he thinks he might be losing his grace again. Thinks he might be almost human.

He also said a bunch of sappy shit about growing old with Dean. Dean’s not gonna think about that right now. Though it doesn’t sound half bad.

Right now, though? Right now, he’s gonna make Cas a cheeseburger.

**Author's Note:**

> The "[36 Questions That Lead to Love](https://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/style/36-questions-that-lead-to-love.html)" are an [actual psychological experiment](https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/pdf/10.1177/0146167297234003) to see if vulnerability could generate "interpersonal closeness." The New York Times published an [essay](https://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/style/modern-love-to-fall-in-love-with-anyone-do-this.html) about them a few years back and it briefly became a massive thing. Then I made Dean and Cas do them, because I'm a monster.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Here's a [tumblr](https://gravelghosts.tumblr.com/post/618478603985993728/the-thirty-six-questions-that-lead-to-love-m) link for if you want to share.


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